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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23932846">Screaming In Tune</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoisonHw/pseuds/PoisonHw'>PoisonHw</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, Necromancy, Roach and Jaskier being a power duo, Roach genuinely deserving her own tag, Temporary Character Death, bending the laws of necromancy for my own specific needs, can you tell the author does not like Yennefer, for a bit, shameless abandon of an innocent lute</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 22:15:44</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,667</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23932846</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoisonHw/pseuds/PoisonHw</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“You look like you’ve been through hell, son.”</p><p>Jaskier almost asked what had betrayed him between the flesh wounds, the dirty clothes, and the face of exhaustion, but decided against it. Instead he reached for the steel sword attached to Roach’s saddle, still bloody, and pointed it at the man’s throat.</p><p>“I’ve yet to find the way out,” he said. “Mind pointing me to Ard Carraigh?”</p><p>___</p><p>Or, Jaskier makes a grave mistake and decides to fix it, no matter the costs.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>256</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Screaming In Tune</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>!! PLEASE READ THE TAGS IF YOU HAVEN'T YET !!</p><p>Hi. This is my first ever work in this fandom.<br/>Once upon months ago, back when the show had just came out, I made an angsty twitter thread with some friends and then decided to write it despite being a super slow writer. It's finally here. I'm relieved.<br/>Now please be aware: Assassin's Creed lore? Ask me anything, I'll probably know the answer. Witcher lore? Not so much. Witcher 1 crashed on me after a few hours, I only played the first act of AoK and watched a walkthrough of Wild Hunt back in 2015. Also I'm only on book 5. If you came here hoping for incredibly accurate lore, sorry to disappoint. But I hope you still enjoy it!</p><p>This is my first ever betaed work! Infinite thanks to <a href="https://twitter.com/DeviantNewt">Newt</a> and <a href="https://twitter.com/ComettDeFal">Comett</a> for witnessing my breakdowns over the months and then taking the time to re-read this nightmare. Love you both.</p><p>The title is inspired by The Amazing Devil's Farewell Wonderlust. All hail Joey Batey.</p><p>I own nothing, obviously.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It shouldn’t have happened like that. It shouldn’t have happened at all, really.</p><p>Geralt of Rivia wasn’t supposed to die.</p><p>Jaskier had invited himself to enough hunts, had sung enough songs about the White Wolf to know that Geralt was constantly ready to die. That at any point in time, some monster could strike him down and he would welcome death with open arms, ready to be at peace would people let him finally rest.</p><p>But these were just ifs. Geralt didn’t just <i>die</i>. As harsh as the world was to him, he had a survival instinct, and did his best to stay alive. To Jaskier’s eyes, he was practically invincible. Even immortal, what with the longer lifespan and all that.</p><p>Destiny had other plans, though, such as making sure that the most renown witcher on the Continent would not die a witcher death. That Geralt of Rivia, the Butcher of Blaviken, the White Wolf, the one who accepted contracts no one else did, would die at the hands of a human.</p><p>More importantly, a human he knew and might have loved.</p><p>Jaskier couldn’t remember the monster’s name. He’d never had the patience to learn all of them, least of all listen to whatever Geralt said before attacking. He only ever asked afterwards, when the deed was done and they were safe. All he could remember of this one was the monstrous claws and the sharp teeth, the thick skin and the fact that Geralt had somehow struggled, already wounded fairly badly. That the silver sword, so precious and important, had found itself near the bard instead of staying in her owner’s hand.</p><p>Jaskier was not, by all accounts, a fighter. He knew how to use a sword, sure, could defend himself if the need arose, but he’d never actually been in a fight because he did not want to. Except his eyes had seen the witcher on the verge of being eaten alive, the monster turning his back, and he’d been encouraged by his friend to approach and sink the blade through that monster’s back.</p><p>How could he have possibly known how close their bodies were?</p><p>He would’ve loved to put all of this on Fate’s back. When the monster died and fell and its weight crushed the witcher, probably breaking a few ribs, leaving only Jaskier’s shaking hands holding a sword covered in purple and red blood that he promptly let fall on the ground. When he used what strength he had to push the beast off his friend’s body, only to discover that the silver hadn’t just gone through the enemy’s body, but through the ally’s as well.</p><p>Geralt had still been breathing then. Barely conscious, but just enough to try and calm the bard’s panicked state before making it worse. Because witchers could do a lot of things, but magically heal a blood-filled punctured lung, along with several other injuries, in the middle of a forest was not one of them. No potion was good enough (and if there was one, Jaskier sure as hell did not know about it), nothing short of a miracle would help in their current situation. He’d have to find a healer, but only after finding a way to move Geralt.</p><p>He could only watch, frozen, as his friend’s breath came out shallow, and blood spilled out of the wounds again, and then there was nothing.</p><p>Here’s the thing: Geralt had always seemed a man of few words, and the fact that he’d died in silence had made the entire ordeal even worse.</p><p>Jaskier, eyes wide and heart beating so fast he felt it was ready to burst out of his chest, looked at the body of the one he loved─ oh, he loved him, and wasn’t that just the worst time to make peace with it─, then at Roach standing still a safe distance away, then at his still shaking hands that were now covered in blood.</p><p>What are you supposed to do, when the strongest person you’ve ever known dies before your very eyes?</p><p>The bard stood up, willing himself to breathe deeper. Considered taking the sword back and cutting the already dead monster into tiny little pieces if only to convince himself he’d avenged the witcher’s death.</p><p>His head was empty and the gods only knew what made him move, getting Roach to approach the body of her master. Found a rug they used in dire camping situations, tearing it apart in several pieces, and wrapped it around the witcher’s body as best as he could to stop the blood from slipping out of his body.</p><p>Jaskier might not have been that strong, but he still somehow managed, effort after effort, to hoist the witcher’s limp body on his horse. Took back the silver sword, putting it in its place on Roach’s saddle, and grabbed the reins to start the walk. Somehow, riding the mare still felt like a forbidden thing, and he wasn’t ready to do it just yet.</p><p>Yennefer was close by, back in Rinde, using the mayor’s house again after putting it back together; he knew this because that’s where he’d found Geralt, after travelling for too long.</p><p>His muscles were sore when he entered the town, eyes on him and on the horse and on the body, but he ignored everything and everyone.</p><p>The sorceress felt him before he even tried to enter the house.</p><p>She came out, dressed all in black as if to attend a funeral; she was beautiful as always, the way a snake’s scales are shining as they inject their venom into your veins.</p><p>“Fix it,” he said, barely recognizing his own voice, staring at her purple eyes.</p><p>She’d never really cared about Geralt more than she did about herself. Yennefer was, above all, an egoist, and Jaskier had been the only one to see that. She did not weep, she did not seem to mourn in the slightest, she did not flinch under his tone, only approached the witcher’s body and hummed.</p><p>“To think you used to sing about how <i>I</i> would be his demise.”</p><p>And that─ hurt. Because he had. He had sung about the way she destroyed everything in her path. Had Geralt not been bound to her by a djinn, he liked to think she wouldn’t have gotten between them. Her Sweet Kiss had been written a long time ago, when the witcher had pushed him away and Jaskier had been heartbroken enough to transform his newest song into this ballad about the terrible sorceress who had inadvertently made it impossible for him to get the one he wanted the most.</p><p>Jaskier loved all. But he’d somehow fallen in love with only one. And she knew it.</p><p>The tears he’d kept to himself during his trip slowly escaped, one by one. Yennefer was the last person he wanted to show the most fragile side of himself to, and yet she was the one to see him crack.</p><p>With one last look at the witcher’s body, she approached the bard, eyes fixed on his, and stayed silent for what felt like an eternity and a half.</p><p>“I do not deal with necromancy, Jaskier. There is nothing I can or will do to revive him,” she said, matter-of-factly. “If you want to look for someone who will do something, I can keep his body intact until you finally come to reason.”</p><p>Admittedly, this kindness from her was unexpected. There might have been a reason why she would do this, allow him to go and find help. He barely registered her getting Geralt’s body inside the house, but still followed her blindly and watched as she put a spell he didn’t understand on the witcher.</p><p>Yennefer stopped him again as he turned on his heels, not really knowing where to go but still willing to follow any tracks.</p><p>“Nilfgaard does have a large number of deranged folks who would be willing to do anything for the right price,” she said. “If you think you can convince him, though, you should go and fetch the Royal Advisor of King Henselt of Kaedwen.”</p><p>She turned to him, her face unreadable.</p><p>“Dethmold is a terrible man, but his moral compass is non-existent and he has no qualms with performing necromancy. You should know, Jaskier, there is no guarantee it will even work.”</p><p>“But it might.” His voice was low, and broken, the voice of someone wanting to scream their feelings away without being able to do so.</p><p>Jaskier went back outside and took one look at Roach, loyal, fast and brave mare, before hopping on the saddle and cantering away from the city. Riding Geralt’s horse felt wrong; but at the end of the day, it was better than abandoning her.</p><p>Anxiety creeped up Jaskier’s head thinking about the road ahead. If his memory served, Ard Carraigh wasn’t that far from Rinde; a few days on horseback, maybe, up north past the mountains, and it occurred to him that he didn’t have a plan to keep him going. All he had were the clothes on his back, and whatever Geralt had put in Roach’s saddle pouches. Including his swords, which would most definitely prove useful; to fight or to intimidate, Jaskier didn’t really want to know for now.</p><p>He made Roach slow down once they were far enough from Rinde, once the town couldn’t be seen anymore and he was left alone surrounded by trees. The mare gladly stopped cantering in favor of a fast walk, letting her rider loosen the reins and think about what he was going to do. The road was fairly straightforward: he just had to follow the main road and hopefully not get lost, and survive the passage through the mountains unless he wanted to make a detour.</p><p>Which he didn’t. The faster he revived Geralt, the better.</p><p>The Continent wouldn’t survive without its best witcher around. Jaskier wouldn’t survive without his only love around. It was a winning situation for everyone if whoever Dethmold was actually offered his services. Would he want something in return? What could he give him?</p><p>He’d give anything, he thought, literally anything if it meant he’d get him back. He would do it no matter the cost.</p><p>Roach snorted, as if she knew what he was thinking. (Sometimes he could <i>swear</i> she was more than a regular horse.)</p><p>Leaving the reins lose, Jaskier twisted on the saddle and looked in the pouches. He couldn’t possibly ride three days in his current outfit. He’d taken to wearing better boots and pants, seeing as Geralt had never let him climb on his horse, but his top was not meant for adventure. If you could call it that. His search proved successful, and he found a shirt that would do well enough. Shrugging off what he was currently wearing, he slipped it on, almost whining when it proved too large for him. Of course it was. Geralt was a mountain of muscle, and Jaskier was a scrawny bard.</p><p>At least they were almost the same height, he thought.</p><p>He packed his own outfit and took back the reins, spurring Roach on. They couldn’t afford to waste too much time. Breaks would be taken, but for now, the road was clear enough to accelerate.</p><p>The way to Ard Carraigh was not straight by any means, and he sincerely hoped he’d be able to stay on course and not get lost. There weren’t many signs in the middle of nowhere, no matter how important the cities named were, and he couldn’t afford to lose time by losing his way. Jaskier had yet to own a horse, and thus did not have a clear knowledge of the time needed for a mount to rest; he’d have to trust Roach, he guessed, to stop when she didn’t feel like walking anymore. Not to mention the night. As much as he’d love to get to Kaedwen as fast as possible, sleep was still important. Who knew what could happen to him.</p><p>It was sunny still, and the wind had picked up; Jaskier could’ve sworn Roach knew what had happened, as she didn’t show any sign of ever wanting to stop advancing. She might not have known where they were going, but she still showed an enthusiasm that he was happy to see. Having a companion as determined as he was, no matter their species, was welcomed.</p><p>Jaskier dismounted when the sun started to set, stopping on the side of a small clearing that seemed to be fairly safe. Trusting Roach not to run away, he tied the reins to her saddle, letting her graze peacefully, and went deeper into the forest to gather some branches.</p><p>Bard he may be, but ignorant he was not. Jaskier had survived many a trip by himself, with no horse or companion, and he knew well enough how to make a fire.</p><p>That he managed to get sleep at all, despite the ache in his heart and bones, was a miracle he was not about to discuss.</p><p>They found a river on the second day, an hour of Jaskier walking beside the mare to wake himself up; the road was still empty, and they both managed to drink their fill before he climbed back in the saddle and spurred Roach on.</p><p>Jaskier spent the day thinking about Geralt’s absence. It was made all the more obvious by the absolute silence around them. He didn’t have his lute, but he quite obviously wouldn’t have had the heart to sing anything no matter what. Still, he couldn’t possibly start talking to the horse, who was trotting calmly with long reins leaving her head free.</p><p>(Geralt always rode her tense, overly on the bit. Jaskier was no perfect rider, but the fact remained that Roach was well-dressed enough she didn’t need the constant pressure. This was proof.)</p><p>They did not stop. They made a great duo, unstoppable and connected. He trusted her to choose the pace, listened to her when she needed a break, and in return she gave him a constant presence and the speed he needed to get to his objective.</p><p>Both of them looked and felt exhausted by the time they stopped in the middle of some trees for the night, the moon so high and so bright in the sky that Jaskier didn’t even bother setting up camp or eating anything before laying down next to Roach.</p><p>His sleep was dark and dreamless.<br/>
He woke up with the sun, Roach nudging his shoulder as if knowing it was time to get this over with.</p><p>He couldn’t help but agree.</p><p>The sun was high and the air hot when the ground started shifting. Dirt and dust started disappearing and in front of them stood the mountains, their biggest obstacle. Roach’s hooves were already clacking on the progressively more rocky ground. </p><p>To Jaskier’s absolute dismay, the mountains were incredibly silent. No forest trees with rustling leaves, no occasional small animal passing through, no singing birds. Here, he could only hear and feel the wind and Roach’s hooves on the rocky path. What few trees they passed were small and dying, painfully growing through cracks in larges stones. This road though the mountains was the worst part of their entire trip so far, and Jaskier was about to ask Roach to go faster so they could go back to the green lands as fast as possible.</p><p>He didn’t get to: she stopped.</p><p>All four hooves firmly planted on the ground, ears flat on her neck and head held high, her eyes rolled around as she harshly exhaled.</p><p>Jaskier was no horse whisperer, but he was not stupid enough to not recognize a wary horse when he was mounting one. He was human, and did not have developed senses like she had. If Roach, a <i>witcher’s</i> horse, was sensing something to the point of stopping in her tracks, he was not about to doubt the presence of danger.</p><p>Fighting was no more his strong suit than it had been a few days earlier, but he had to protect himself one way or another. Bracing himself, he reached back in the saddle to grab the steel sword. </p><p>Only now that he had to use it did he realize it was not adapted to him <i>at all</i>. This was no wonder of weapon-making, but it was still tailored to fit Geralt’s size and strength and combat style. Not only was Jaskier so-very-small next to the big White Wolf, he also didn’t <i>have</i> a combat style and therefore was in no position to determine whether this was a good idea.</p><p>He’d have to make do.</p><p>Roach relaxed when he took out the sword, careful not to cut her in the process. But she didn’t move, waiting for whatever the enemy was to make the first step.</p><p>(Honestly, Roach should’ve been the one wielding the sword. She was so much better at this than he was. But, Jaskier guessed, that came with being the one true companion of a renown witcher.)</p><p>He let out a shaky breath, and decided that if they weren’t going to show up, he might as well make them.</p><p>“Are you going to come here or am I going to have to wait all day?”</p><p>He heard snickers, hiding behind what had to be rocks or walls. These were definitely bandits. He just prayed they weren’t too many. He could take three. Probably. More, and that’d start being a problem.</p><p>They stepped into the light, and they were four. Jaskier cursed under his breath, barely hearing the first man who talked.</p><p>“Nice horse.”</p><p>“Nice swords.”</p><p>“Could get a nice price for that loot.”</p><p>“What’s a little thing like ya doing here all alone?”</p><p>Now, Jaskier was no little thing. He was a grown man, thank you very much, had encountered his fair share of bad guys and seen a few wars, and he would <i>not</i> let these idiots ruin an already terrible day by robbing him of everything. Especially since what they wanted to steal, technically, wasn’t his.</p><p>(And if they thought Roach would come willingly, they clearly didn’t know shit.)</p><p>He tried to smile, expertly disguising his discomfort and anxiety.</p><p>“I’m afraid the horse and the swords aren’t going anywhere, gentlemen.”</p><p>His voice was, miraculously, steady and as calm as it could possibly pretend to be. His hand tensed on the sword, muscles not used to the weight of the weapon he was holding. These people did not seem inclined to let him pass, and Jaskier briefly wondered if it would be possible to just race through them with Roach.</p><p>Who would, no doubt, end up with a large gash on her chest if he even made an attempt.</p><p>Back to square one, then. His only plan was to fight, which he did not exactly want to do. Seeing as they already had the upper hand, he was not about to try and fight on horseback with a sword he didn’t know. Jaskier climbed down, his feet hitting the hard ground with barely a sound, his eyes never leaving the other men. Their own weapons weren’t drawn yet, and he managed to note that they did not have any armor. Like him, they were vulnerable, and he idly wondered why they would hide in mountains of all places.</p><p>Surely there were better places, with more opportunities to ambush people.</p><p>“Ya sure you don’t wanna give up, boy?”</p><p>Jaskier sighed. “Oh, shut up.”</p><p>In one of his stories, this was a moment of truth: the hero would throw something or use a bow, manage to take down one of their enemy in a single shot to make their job easier and then defeat the rest with powerful swings of their weapon to come out victorious.</p><p>Jaskier didn’t have any of that, though. He only had a too-heavy sword, an angry horse sidekick, his brain and whatever courage he could manage to scoop out of his bones.</p><p>Overall, not a lot.</p><p>He was not about to stand there all day, and decided that he might as well take the first step. All four of his opponents seemed to wake up at that, most of them still surprised at him ordering them to be quiet, and the closest three took out swords from their sheaths.</p><p>The fourth, probably thinking Jaskier would be dealt with in no time, didn’t even bother and started walking straight to Roach.</p><p>If you asked Jaskier, later on, to count you the story of his first real sword fight, you would be disappointed by the lack of a proper beginning. No amount of alcohol would be enough to spur his memory as to how the fight even <i>started</i>; one second, he was walking to his enemies, the next, he was dodging a swing from his right side.</p><p>Thankfully for him, possibly in an attempt to not hit each other, they did not attack him all at the same time. Out of his three personal bandits, only two of them actually came for him, the latest standing back just in case.</p><p>Which would have been good, had they not decided to be intelligent and take a side each.</p><p>Jaskier parred a swing on his left, for a second wondering why they’d bothered teaching him about form if there wasn’t time to even <i>think</i> about having proper form when you were in an actual fight.</p><p>He was going to lose this, wasn’t he?</p><p>Jaskier could not actually <i>see</i> how Roach was doing from where she had been standing right before this. But he, along with all three of his sparring partners, managed to <i>hear</i> everything that happened. He did not particularly care about the details of it. He only heard a harsh horse sound, a huge <i>crack</i> and saw his two opponents freeze and look the other way for a second.</p><p>A second that Jaskier would not lose, at any cost. With all the strength he could manage to muster in a single moment, without thinking much about it, he took the opportunity to grab the sword with both hands and sink it in one of their abdomens.</p><p>He’d done that before, he thought bitterly.</p><p>The sound of tearing flesh snapped the others’ attention back to him. The fourth member of their quartet did not seem to be up to the challenge anymore, and he silently thanked Roach for that before getting back into the fight.</p><p>There was no distraction anymore, nothing to take both bandits away from their goal. Jaskier’s confidence, already paperthin, was being torn apart a bit more each second as he came to terms with the fact that he was still in a two versus one situation.</p><p>And that was only thanks to the horse.</p><p>He barely paid attention to the sneer on their faces and instead tried to concentrate on their swords. There was no way for him to get out of there unscathed, he knew that now. He was no soldier and certainly no witcher, could not predict his enemies’ moves and could certainly not fight two different people at once.</p><p>Jaskier chose the closest man and decided to attack instead of defending himself. Geralt’s sword was heavy but still light enough that he didn’t have to use both hands to hold it; good for balance, yes, but it also meant more meat to be cut by others. He crossed swords with the first bandit, keeping him occupied and barely managing to evade a horizontal swipe from the other one. He hissed, feeling the thin cut on his arm, but adrenaline kept him going.</p><p>He did say he was not going to come out of it fine.</p><p>(But he was going to come out victorious. He had to. He could. Right?)</p><p>Jaskier was tired, and frustrated, and angry, and <i>damn</i>, he thought, <i>if that doesn’t give me the motivation to end this fight as soon as possible, what kind of premium reason do I need to give it all?</i></p><p>Time to fight dirty. To hell with manners and form and formal training.</p><p>His sword was still crossed with the man on his right. He focused on him, putting his weight on it, bringing them close and making it as impossible as he could for any of them to get out of it. He paid no mind to the confused face in front of him, and brought his knee up as high and as hard as he could into the man’s crotch.</p><p>Who promptly retreated, making the both of them lose the grip on their sword-clashing and on their balance. Apparently not caring about the fact that one of them was holding a weapon, the man brought both hands down, and Jaskier managed to evade having his face torn open by the abrupt swing of steel. He did not, however, move back in time to make his whole body dodge the move, and his shoulder blade paid the price.</p><p>Wound number two.</p><p>Jaskier couldn’t think about it too much, though, and immediately turned around with his sword raised to block any and all attacks the other bandit could throw at him.</p><p>He was right to think that the man was close; he’d managed to approach. With one half down, Jaskier was finally in a situation he could potentially call ideal. One to one, and with the knowledge that the rest of them had been put down in one way or another, the bandit did not look confident.</p><p>Still cocky, because such was the way of criminals, but there was doubt.</p><p>And Jaskier couldn’t <i>not</i> use it.</p><p>A wary opponent was a defeated one, for they were too cautious to provide a strong defense for themselves (or so he’d been told, once, he couldn’t remember by who, maybe it was just in his head, but it made sense to him).</p><p>If he wasn’t going to parry attacks, then he would attack instead. Jaskier did not put too much force in his strikes, careful not to exhaust himself, but he was fairly quick on his feet. The both of them ended up in a few steps back, to where the fight had started, and Jaskier backed up to go for the legs. (He did say dirty.)</p><p>The steel sunk with ease in the other man’s thigh, effectively making him kneel with a cry. In a last desperate move, the bandit threw his sword forward. Jaskier dodged, yet again a bit late (he needed to work on that), and did not escape a cut on his hip.</p><p>There was no grace, no precision to his movements, he barely knew what he was doing. Jaskier wasn’t surprised when his next blow, after taking the weapon out of a leg, ended up being simply sinking his sword in his chest. He was not chasing good moves. He was trying to survive, here.</p><p>Which reminded him.</p><p>The bandit hit the ground as Jaskier slid the sword out of him, blood dripping on the stone, and he turned to the last one. The man was on all fours, trying to get back up. The last of his adrenaline spiking up, Jaskier power walked the few steps needed to get to him and planted his bloody sword through the back, where he knew vital organs were trying to work their magic.</p><p>He stood there for gods knew how long, until his last enemy’s body fell down and he was left alone with his weapon and a few dead bodies leaking pools of blood.</p><p>Gripping the sword back, he turned around and almost laughed. Roach was standing there, looking at him with her ears perked up, her head held high above the body of what he assumed was the one man who hadn’t bothered to try and fight him. She looked almost peaceful, as friendly as he’d ever seen her. He slowly walked up to her as she watched his every step.</p><p>Jaskier looked down at the man, at his crooked face with a bite mark and what were most definitely a lot of broken ribs. “Nice work,” he told Roach, before sinking Geralt’s sword right in the bandit’s heart. </p><p>She snorted, and he looked up with a tired smile. “Just to be sure,” he said.</p><p>The excitement from the fight was wearing off. His limbs weren’t used to fighting. He was feeling a little sore. And most of all, he had a few cuts he needed to take care of. Clean. Do something.</p><p>But first, they needed to leave the mountains.</p><p>“Come on,” he whispered, and Roach did not need for him to take the reins. He started walking down the path, the mare following him as if their first fight together had sealed their new bond. They were now partners in crime. Great.</p><p>The journey down was long. He lost track of time, climbed back on Roach when the road appeared to be flat, and let out a huge breath when trees started appearing again. They were getting out.</p><p>They sought out a water source as soon as they got back in the forest. Jaskier trusted Roach and let the reins go, letting her use her superior senses to find it by herself.</p><p>They stopped in front of a river; he took off the shirt, torn in places now, and cleaned his small wounds as best he could. He didn’t have anything to put on them, and who cared, anyway.</p><p>He put the shirt back on, climbed back on Roach, and turned back to the main road, trotting as calmly as they could until he crossed path with someone. The road ahead split up, and he didn’t know which way to go. He stopped.</p><p>The stranger was riding a thin black horse, coming from the left option, and seemed genuinely interested in what Jaskier was doing here, still in the middle of the road. The bard considered asking him for direction, silently wondering if it was a good idea. He did not get the chance to think about it for much longer; the complete stranger walked right up to him.</p><p>“You look like you’ve been through hell, son.”</p><p>Jaskier almost asked what had betrayed him between the flesh wounds, the dirty clothes, and the face of exhaustion, but decided against it. Instead he reached for the steel sword attached to Roach’s saddle, still bloody, and pointed it at the man’s throat.</p><p>“I’ve yet to find the way out,” he said. “Mind pointing me to Ard Carraigh?”</p><p>No longer a bystander, the man made his horse stand very still, eyes focused on the blade, and pointed towards one of the two road options. Jaskier nodded, face blank, and spurred Roach on. He kept the sword in hand for a moment, just enough to make sure the man wasn’t trying to take revenge on being threatened. No human on the Continent was absolutely safe, and he was not about to take any chances now that his journey was coming to an end. He was tired, and wounded, his exhaustion covering the thin layer of anger and frustration he was trying so hard to hide.</p><p>He just… Couldn’t anymore.</p><p>Roach, bless her heart, was oblivious to the war going on in his head and kept a steady pace while he sheathed the sword back in the saddle. Unless he was extremely wrong, the city wasn’t far by now and he’d be at the gates in no time.</p><p>The forest stopped fairly quickly, and he was left on a road in the middle of fields. In the distance, he could finally see the large bridge leading to Ard Carraigh. He spurred Roach on, at this point just begging for the end of the trip to finally come, and she obediently cantered away to get to their destination.</p><p>The guards didn’t bat an eye when he crossed the gates─ or if they did, they did not particularly care about the horrible state of his attire and his cuts. They probably had better things to think about.</p><p>The city was no Novigrad, the weather was bad and whoever came outside had a very good reason to do so. Jaskier, too, would’ve loved to be home (wherever the hell that was these days), but duty called. He stopped Roach, getting off her back before looking around the empty place he had just entered for a spot to rest.</p><p>Jaskier sat on a bench. It was surprisingly cold, and the few people roaming the streets did not even spare a glance for him. Roach snorted, nudging him with her nose. He hummed. The only thing he had to do now was find a way to get Dethmold to come to him. How could he possibly enter the court in this state? It’s not like he had anything to offer King Henselt, so getting to his advisor was basically impossible. Maybe if he thought about him hard enough, he would magically appear right there.</p><p>To his surprise, a portal appeared in front of him and there the mage was. His outfit was weird and his aura would probably be terrifying had Jaskier been strong enough to care. He wasn’t. He wondered if he was powerful enough to mentally ask a sorcerer to come to him.</p><p>“Don’t flatter yourself. I received word from Yennefer of Vengerberg that some bard might come my way,” Dethmold said. “I was intrigued.”</p><p>“She does like ruining the surprise.”</p><p>“You look nothing like a bard.”</p><p>“I’ve had a rough trip.”</p><p>Dethmold stared at him. Jaskier knew he looked bad; he couldn’t even remember what color felt like. He was almost blinded by the ones on the mage’s outfit, and it wasn’t even that colorful. (He was also wounded, but that meant nothing to him right now. So he didn’t comment.)</p><p>Dethmold must have deemed him worthy of his time, and sighed. “Speak, then.”</p><p>Jaskier straightened, temporarily forgetting that he hadn’t prepared a speech. “I need your help.”</p><p>“What for?”</p><p>“I’ve been informed that you have no problem practicing necromancy. I need you to revive someone.”</p><p>Dethmold’s face twisted, making him uglier than he already was.</p><p>“Unless this individual is of high importance, I do not have time to offer my services to strangers. You came for nothing, bard.”</p><p>He started to turn back then, and Jaskier shot up from his seat.</p><p>“It’s Geralt of Rivia.”</p><p>Dethmold stopped.</p><p>“The witcher? He’s dead?”</p><p>“It’s my fault.” Jaskier’s voice cracked. “I need to fix it and you’re the only one who can help.”</p><p>Dethmold looked him in the eyes and he felt like his secrets were being ripped away from him; but he did not have the strength to care just yet.</p><p>“You love him.” It was not a question but a statement, some hidden truth the mage had found within him. </p><p>The answer was quick. “I do.”</p><p>(As if denying it would’ve made a difference.)</p><p>Dethmold was watching him with interest now. It was uncomfortable, but Jaskier held his gaze. He hadn’t come this far to give up, after all, and while his goal was becoming hazy, he knew what he had to do.</p><p>“I have been wondering whether love was enough to make a revival possible,” Dethmold said, scratching his chin. “Combined with a witcher, this would make for an interesting experiment.”</p><p>Jaskier almost wanted to slap him for calling it an experiment. But he was tired, and this was a mage, and he had no fight left in him. As long as he agreed to come, the man could say anything. Lost in this particular thought, he hadn’t seen him approach. Their faces were too close, his personal space was invaded, and the mage breathed in deeply.</p><p>“You reek of affection and determination,” he whispered. “What are you willing to give away to get him back?”</p><p>Of course, he knew there would be a price. There always was.</p><p>He gritted his teeth. “<i>Everything</i>.”</p><p>Had he been rested and healthy, he probably wouldn’t have answered this. It was a terrible thing to say. The mage could very well take it literally and leave with everything he had, and he’d be none the wiser.</p><p>But he was not, in fact, rested, nor was he in good health: which meant he didn’t care.</p><p>Dethmold took a step back.</p><p>“Very well. I will help you. Where is he?”</p><p>“Yennefer is keeping him back in Rinde.”</p><p>The portal appeared as soon as he was done talking. Without another word, he was invited to use it.<br/>
Jaskier grabbed Roach’s reins, leading her into it. She didn’t protest, as if she knew what was happening, and followed him closely while he stepped into it, wondering why Yennefer hadn’t done this for him instead of letting him endure the long trip on horseback. Perhaps she thought he’d change his mind and come to reason, and that just proved that she didn’t know him. Geralt wouldn’t have made this mistake.</p><p>They appeared in the courtyard of the mayor’s house, and Jaskier didn’t waste any time leaving the horse be so he could lead the mage inside. Yennefer was waiting for them, sitting on a table with a glass of what could only be wine. She threw a look at Dethmold, and Jaskier idly wondered if there was a rivalry between the two. (If there was, they needed to knock it off.)</p><p>The sorceress looked him up and down, and if Jaskier didn’t know any better he’d say she looked impressed; as it was though, she was probably just surprised he’d survived the trip.</p><p>“So you did it.”</p><p>He didn’t have <i>time</i> for this.</p><p>“Where is he, Yennefer?”</p><p>She rolled her eyes, and gestured for them to follow her.</p><p>He was surprised to see her lead them upstairs in a room he knew a bit too well. Geralt was laying on the bed Jaskier had once recovered in. He looked almost peaceful, but his skin was even paler than usual. He had a bandage on his chest, suggesting Yennefer had repaired his body in case reviving him became a possibility.</p><p>Jaskier did appreciate the thought.</p><p>He turned to Dethmold, who ignored him and approached the witcher. His eyes were the same as a kid’s when getting a new toy. The mage looked at the patched up wound and hummed.</p><p>“Fascinating. You did this?”</p><p>Jaskier was not about to revisit his mistakes. He’d done that too much in the past.</p><p>“Can you do something or not?”</p><p>The man looked offended. “Of course I can,” he said. “I might be able to start now, but there is the question of the spell’s fuel.”</p><p>Yennefer huffed, obviously annoyed by the theatrics. She turned to Jaskier, whose eyes were fixed on Geralt, and a part of her was fascinated by the transformation he seemed to have gone through in such a short time. The bard had changed a lot in the few days he’d been gone: not only physically, he also didn’t look as soft as before, stronger than the man she knew. She guessed killing the one you loved did that to someone.</p><p>Dethmold started talking again.</p><p>“I cannot guarantee his body will accept the revival, bard. Either way, you will have to give away something you need, something of importance. Symbols are powerf-”</p><p>“Just take whatever the fuck you need from me and be done with it,” Jaskier hissed, cutting the rant short.</p><p>(Yennefer’s lack of a maniacal laugh was a pure product of her incredibly strong self-control.)</p><p>Dethmold looked passably offended, but did not voice his emotions. “Very well,” he said instead, and within half a second he was in front of the bard, grabbing his right hand and cutting off his ring finger with no warning.</p><p>Jaskier cried out and stumbled back, hitting the wall hard. The pain, both on his hand and in his back, made his vision blurry and white, and he felt more than he saw Yennefer come to quickly heal him.</p><p>His breathing was heavy but irregular, and he stared at the man as best as he could, willing himself to not curse at him. He needed the mage, and he <i>had</i> said he would give away anything to get Geralt back, hadn’t he?</p><p>Dethmold looked at him with a crooked smile and held up his bloody digit.</p><p>“As I was saying, symbols are important. Your ring finger is almost directly linked to your love for him, and…” His voice lowered. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but playing the lute will be difficult without it.”</p><p>Quite honestly, Jaskier could not have cared less about music at this particular moment. He hadn’t thought about it once since the incident, and could not even remember where his lute was.</p><p>He idly wondered where the passion had gone.</p><p>He threw a thankful look at Yennefer, who was done working on his hand, and went back to observing Dethmold.</p><p>The mage had stopped looking at him, his attention fully devoted to the dead witcher in front of him.</p><p>Jaskier did not understand the Elder vocabulary magic-users talked in during their spells. He could only watch, helpless, as Dethmold started chanting words he could not make out. At his side, Yennefer was frowning; she understood the words, and was quite obviously getting upset by them.</p><p>The windows opened in a rush, sucked in by whatever force Dethmold was calling upon. The mage’s hands were shaking. His ‘symbol’ had turned to ash, slowly coming out of his clenched fist to fall on the floor, and his chanting was becoming louder by the second.</p><p>Jaskier barely felt Yennefer’s hand snaking up his arms, and he looked at her to question her intentions. It only resulted in him throwing her a confused look.</p><p>Her eyes were wide, and had he not known her, he would’ve said she looked scared. His ears almost didn’t hear her speak.</p><p>“It’s not strong enough.”</p><p>Jaskier’s brain did not have enough time to process what she’d told him and whatever the hell it meant. Despite her strong grip, he was still thrown in Dethmold’s arms without resistance when the man practically made him fly to his side.</p><p>Dethmold’s eyes were almost glowing, full of power, and Jaskier started to understand why necromancy was forbidden magic.</p><p>For the first time in days, he felt truly, genuinely terrified.</p><p>The symbol was not enough. Whatever was reviving Geralt needed more from him.</p><p>Dethmold spinned Jaskier around to make him face the witcher, hands a bruising presence on his arms. The hurt was nothing compared to the aching in his heart caused by what he was seeing. Tears started blurring his sight; surely he had suffered enough. Although he’d probably give his own life for Geralt to be alive again, he still believed he didn’t have to. Destiny wasn’t <i>that</i> cruel, was it?</p><p>His train of thought stopped, as well as his tears, and the wind became but a background sound compared to his screams. He could not understand it, couldn’t bear it, would rather die than endure it. Something was being ripped from his chest, a hand was cracking his ribs and clawing at his heart, his blood pressure higher and his lungs proved unable to function. Eyes wide, he forced himself to breathe and in the process found he did not have the strength to look down or even move away. His own hands clutched his shirt, tore it apart, trying in vain to grip whatever was hurting him. He didn’t even feel himself tear his shirt apart, his own nails scratching the skin of his torso, hard enough to draw blood; it was just a drop of pain in his ocean of anguish.</p><p>But he had to grab this hand, this foreign invader who was destroying him from the inside. He couldn’t even feel the bruises on his arms anymore. He cried out again, throat burning with the strength of his agony, willed it all to go away.</p><p>To stop this, to just give Geralt back and leave him alone. He’d had enough.</p><p><i>STOP</i>.</p><p>The invader found what they were looking for; with one last slash on his soul, the pain disappeared and the only thing he felt was the ground under his trembling body.<br/>
Jaskier’s whole being felt numb. He wasn’t laying in a cloud, though; he was as uncomfortable as one could be.</p><p>He could barely think, let alone open his eyes or speak. But he did hear Yennefer rush to his side, as if she’d been forced to stand on the other side of the room this entire time. She probably had been.</p><p>“What the <i>fuck</i> did he just give up?!”</p><p>Her concern was interesting, but Dethmold did not pay attention to her.</p><p>“I’ll have to do more experiments to confirm theories… Love is not enough to revive a Witcher.”</p><p>Jaskier opened his eyes just in time to see him look at Yennefer and say “A fragment of his soul.” in a voice that was far too nonchalant.<br/>
He didn’t have the strength to talk just yet, but Yen sure did.</p><p>“What does that <i>mean</i>?! What part of it?”</p><p>She was asking good questions. Jaskier probably would’ve asked all the wrong ones. Dethmold looked him over, squinting as if he was concentrating.</p><p>“Not much. Some empathy, kindness, perhaps a bit of his music. I made sure his love stayed intact, but who knows, really?”</p><p>Jaskier could feel Yennefer’s anger, her voice sharp as knives when she hissed “<i>Leave</i>.”</p><p>He tried to sit up, the clouds in his head disappearing, just as a portal closed in a pop.</p><p>Was Geralt alive? If Dethmold was leaving, it must have been successful. Ignoring Yennefer’s complaints, Jaskier shot up, grabbing the bed for support, and crawled on it to sit next to the Witcher. He blinked a few times, trying to concentrate, and looked at Geralt’s chest, at his hands, his face, any sign that giving up a part of his soul had been worth it.</p><p>He could see remnants of the magic employed by the necromancer, thin tendrils still going around his body, but the witcher did not move. Jaskier gulped and grabbed his hand, squeezing it in his. It had to have worked. He’d given everything for it. Destiny had to be merciful.</p><p>He closed his eyes, breathing deeply, and faintly heard Yennefer step out of the room and close the door before his hand was squeezed back. Jaskier froze; his heart started beating faster and he opened his eyes to find himself looking back at yellow ones.</p><p>Geralt was awake.</p><p>He was alive.</p><p>Jaskier could’ve jumped in happiness─ as it was though, he couldn’t find it in himself to move, too focused on the fact that he’d actually managed to bring Geralt back to life.</p><p>They were both very still, and very silent, and Geralt was the first one to move. He sat up, carefully, using his free hand as leverage and being careful not to hurt himself more considering the bandages around his chest. He looked Jaskier up and down and frowned.</p><p>The bard was expecting anything as his first words, but not “You look like shit.”</p><p>He huffed, too relieved to be offended. “Yeah, I’ve had a rough few days.”</p><p>“Are these wounds?”</p><p>Jaskier looked down at his chest, finally noticing the destroyed bloody shirt and the scratches. Apart from these, the flesh wounds from his fight were still here and he had to patch them up.</p><p>“As I said, the last couple of days have been tough. Travelling to get to specific people is surprisingly hard around here, did you know?”</p><p>Geralt’s face twisted, and Jaskier realized he might not remember all that had happened before this very moment. He had died, after all, but what was his last memory? He decided to ask before the witcher could say anything.</p><p>“What’s the last thing you remember? Before waking up, I mean?”</p><p>Geralt seemed to think a bit too hard, frowning again, and “I was fighting something. Can’t really remember what. It went bad. The rest is a bit fuzzy, but I’m guessing I got wounded.”</p><p>“No,” Jaskier said, his voice breaking, and Geralt’s frown deepened. “You died.”</p><p>If possible, Geralt looked even more confused. “I did? How? Why am I here then?”</p><p>Jaskier could barely think, but found himself talking like a madman anyway.</p><p>“It went bad. So bad. You lost your sword, and it came close to <i>me</i>, and I know I don’t know shit about fighting monsters but it was <i>on you</i> and you looked at me like <i>do it</i>, so I, I just─ <i>threw myself</i> at that fucker with the sword but it went through <i>you</i> too, and I had to <i>watch you die</i> because I couldn’t <i>do</i> anything.” He felt the tears dripping down his face again. “And then I got you back to Yennefer, but she couldn’t do anything either so I just travelled all the way to <i>Kaedwen</i> of all places, to find Henselt’s advisor because he doesn’t care about forbidden magic, just so he could revive you! And he took my ring finger as some sort of <i>symbol</i> to bring you back but it wasn’t <i>enough</i> so apparently I gave a part of my <i>soul</i> somehow, and I should probably regret it but I <i>don’t</i>. Because I <i>love you so much</i>, I can’t even <i>imagine</i> a life without you.”</p><p>Somewhere during his speech, his eyes had closed, and yet he was still crying. He couldn’t see Geralt’s face, and that was probably for the best because he had just confessed and rejection wasn’t a good thing to see in his state.</p><p>He was, admittedly, not prepared for the gentle hand coming to his cheek to wipe the tears off. Nor was he anticipating the feather-light touch of lips on his eyelids, one by one. He opened his eyes slowly, painfully slowly, to see both of Geralt’s hands coming up to cup his face.</p><p>He didn’t stop crying, per se, but it calmed him down.</p><p>“You’re fine,” Geralt said, in a voice that was far too low and gentle to be real. “You’re safe. I’m alive. I’m here.”</p><p>Jaskier gulped. “You always said you were ready for your death, but I wasn’t.”</p><p>“I know.” Geralt took his hand, ever-so-gently, bringing it to his lips and carefully kissing each knuckle one by one while Jaskier watched, transfixed. Mesmerized. Wondered if he wasn’t hallucinating, if he was still unconscious on the floor. But this felt too real. For what seemed like the hundredth time, he closed his eyes, breathing it all in, willing his body to relax.</p><p>As his Witcher said “You’re okay now,” the statement went right to his heart, his bones and his skin, and he shivered.</p><p>Jaskier was suddenly feeling awfully tired; his emotions had kept him going these last few days, but they were wearing out and all he wanted to do was rest. He guessed it must have been visible, judging by the way Geralt took a hold of him and brought him in his arms. It was warm; which shouldn’t have been possible, considering the fact that he’d been <i>dead</i> mere minutes ago, but Jaskier didn’t question it. He melted into the touch, let his entire body fall on the witcher’s chest to make sure he was real. An arm creeped up on his back, solid and <i>real</i>, fingers coming up in his hair, and he sighed, content.</p><p>“I don’t know what part of me went away,” he whispered, remembering the part about his soul.</p><p>“It’s alright. We’ll figure it out together.”</p><p>“I also forgot my lute when you died, but I don’t know if I still want to play.”</p><p>“We’ll get you another one, and you’ll find out if you still want to be an annoying bard.”</p><p>Jaskier hummed. “I love you,” he said, now that it was out in the open and clearly welcomed.</p><p>“Yeah,” Geralt answered, pressing a kiss to his hairline. “For some reason, the feeling’s mutual.”</p><p>“Didn’t take you for the cuddling type, by the way.”</p><p>“And yet, here we are.”</p>
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